


Like Saccharine Lullabies

by Slashy Goodness (allmadhere)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-14
Updated: 2010-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmadhere/pseuds/Slashy%20Goodness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The roads stretches and stretches and stretches, going on for far longer than it has any right to and the bus follows it blindly. Patrick has him pinned down with looks full of sadness and bottomless guilt, forcing him to eat and drink things that taste less and less like what he thinks they should. All he knows now is the chalky grit of ground pills, burning as he swallows. It feels a lot like he imagines self-flagellation might.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Saccharine Lullabies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coricomile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hum Something Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/712) by coricomile. 



> I'm a terrible person because I totally talked to coricomile and commiserated over our poor remixers and remixees the entire time I plotted and wrote this. ... Surprise, I was you remixer. So, this was actually really fun to do, if terribly terribly depressing. I really wanted to do an America's Suitehearts AU so this happened. Thanks to vJinks for the super fast beta and josiemusprime, kittygrenade, and gcbenjigal for the support. And of course coricomile, even if she didn't know it.

Pete has been hiding from Patrick lately, wrapping himself up in an obscene number of layers and blankets in the hopes that maybe Patrick won't see him. He can't explain why; no words for the urge to run from the person that normally keeps him some semblance of sane. The paranoia of it has set everything on edge, made it almost impossible to do much of anything. He functions in fits and starts like an ancient car kept for sentimental reasons. 

It's been weeks since he willing took one of the myriad pills buried deep in his duffel. They had given him nightmares of a place made of acid and neon, too bright to be real and sharp as a knife. The dreams lurk just inside unconsciousness and he's afraid to fall asleep, afraid they will swallow him whole. It makes being stuck on the road during tour harder than it should be. There is no retreat on the bus, the filler of highway stretching endlessly like a tunnel. Shows and appearances become the light at the end, shining beacons of hope that distract from the nightmare being on the bus has become. His smiles and laughter are a little stilted at first but become easier and lighter, the bus and its claustrophobic air full of Patrick's essence growing more distant. As each show or publicity appearance comes to a close, he starts to hyperventilate, panicking at the idea of yet again being trapped in the steel box with Patrick too close. He hates it.

He's noticed lately that Patrick looks just as tired as he always does, like sleep offers just as little solace as it offers Pete. Patrick looks just as haunted and he can't figure out why. It seems like the moment Patrick slows down for long enough, he falls as easily into sleep as a stone to the bottom of a lake. Even as he downs coffee after coffee after coffee, his eyelids slide closed and his breathing evens out. Sometimes, if the paranoia eases up enough, Pete watches as Patrick sleeps. He wonders if he could ever look as serene and envies the look of peace.

Pete sees Joe and Andy less and less are the tour continues. Joe shoots him looks of concern and Pete almost wants to hide from the looks, tell Joe that he's fine. He's okay, really. A quick and mostly sincere smile is usually enough. Andy is harder to get away from, trapping Pete as exhaustion begins to settle in. His lectures and stern admonitions are the worst. Pete takes his daily dose of pills because of the guilt weighing heavy in his gut.

_The river swirling at his feet runs toxic green and babbles viciously. If he strains, he can hear voices in it, gossiping tones and speculative air. He recognizes it from just about every Hollywood party he's ever attended. A smile he isn't making stretches at his face, all teeth and no feeling behind it like a photographer's flash will blind him any moment and he has to be prepared. He looks down at his hands, feeling more like he's behind a point of view camera than in his own head, and flexes his fingers. He can feel every bone shift under his skin. He looks up again, eyes landing on a carousel spinning too fast to be anything but uncomfortable. Common sense screams at him not to go in a mix of Andy's voice and his mother's. He steps over the river and on the whirling blur._

Pete jerks from his doze violently. He buries the bottle in his bag, vowing never to take one of those pills again.

Patrick follows him almost everywhere now, eyes catching every movement. He never mentions that Pete doesn't take his pills. It's enough for Pete to want to feel worried but he simply writes it off. Patrick would never hurt him, never never never. If his food begins to taste a little strange, it's probably only his imagination.

_He's on the carousel now, the world around him blurring into smudges. He steps up to a gently smiling man in yellow. He looks a bit like Patrick but his eyes are far too cold, looking at him like he's an experiment. The man's hands are full of the accoutrements of a pharmacist or apothecary, pills and vials and syringes ranging across the entire technicolor rainbow._

"I will be your downfall," the man warns, sadness that's all Patrick flashing in his eyes. The man throws the armful of synthetic normality at Pete and he catches them like nothing could possibly be easier, nothing has ever been so simple in all the world. He can almost feel the syringes sink deep into his flesh.

"I was already on my way down." The words are in a voice like Pete's but different in a way he can't place. The man leaves the carousel then, stepping off and becoming another part of the sickening blur. He stands and watches until the smear of canary is completely gone.  
   
Pete doesn't realize he's screaming until he wakes up, throat sore and dry and his ears ringing, Patrick fidgeting in his sleep in the bunk beside him. Joe's looks become sadder, like he wishes there were something he could do take make this better. Andy gives up on the lectures, shaking his head as he withdraws into whatever place it is that he finds serenity. Patrick has that look of sadness from his dream, though it's clearer than it had been there, more like Patrick should be but tinted with guilt. Pete doesn't blame him for the empty bottle he finds tangled in the sheets later even though he suspects.

The roads stretches and stretches and stretches, going on for far longer than it has any right to and the bus follows it blindly. Patrick has him pinned down with looks full of sadness and bottomless guilt, forcing him to eat and drink things that taste less and less like what he thinks they should. All he knows now is the chalky grit of ground pills, burning as he swallows. It feels a lot like he imagines self-flagellation might.

They're crammed into a bunk, maybe his, more often than not and hiding from the confined world of the rest of the bus has become. If he strains, he can hear Andy and Joe mumbling somewhere far away over the din of Patrick's too close breathing and shaky lullabies. Sleep envelopes him like a blanket swiftly followed by a body bag.

_He's crying and sobbing and sniffling, clinging to a yellow dress-pants-clad leg. He buries his face in the leg, breathing in the somehow comforting smells of chemicals and complex compounds. Underneath it, he thinks he can maybe smell a bit of something sort of like Patrick but not quite. The man in yellow slips a hand through his hair and he leans into it, mouth sliding open. The hand pops something onto his tongue and he swallows without even a hint of argument. It happens again, again, again. He never fights it, only swallows dryly to accept more._

"You're killing me," he mumbles, feeling the grin painted on his face slide over his teeth in a way that shouldn't be natural. He has a hunch it might become more that common soon enough, a sensation too much like second nature.

"I'm dying with you," the man replies and Pete looks up to find both the man and Patrick watching him. Their faces are superimposed, blending at the edges and slightly offset. His heart feels like it skips a beat that lasts a lifetime and Patrick is suddenly gone, the man following soon after. His eyes close slowly and he exhales. He can almost feel himself clicking into place and locking with the skin he's in now. He pushes himself to feet and takes a slow deep breath. Some part of him registers that he's not Pete anymore but it dies like a candle flame or blown light bulb, bright then simply non-existent.

He waits patiently for someone, stands near the carousel and stares off into the distance. It feels as if he might be almost done, like it might be nearly finished. He couldn't tell you what it is if he tried. His blood is sluggish in his veins and he wishes he could simply sleep. His weariness dissipates as he spots a smudge of yellow on the horizon. His smile stretches wide of its own accord and he doesn't know where the joy is coming from. He wonder if, perhaps, it might belong to someone he knew once.

"We can't leave again," he tells the man. He feels the truth in the words as they slide off his tongue, heavy and cold and numbing. The man presses a kiss to his lower lip, sweet like the coating on a pill that’s normally too much to swallow. Something in him loosens like a knot being undone as the man sucks at it, dragging out some of the venom he barely knew was there. He touches a rouged cheek gently and shivers at the mix of nausea and warmth, like he should be afraid and never let go. It's familiar, reminds him of something he thinks he remembers dreaming in a dream of a dream.


End file.
